“Size Ain’t Necessarily All It’s Cracked Up to Be”

Dad was a real good arm wrassler. Nobody could believe that somebody that short could be that strong. So he took alot of unsuspecting son of a bitches to the cleaners. “Big over grown bastards,” he’d say. He was a champion until he was about 55 and then one night he went up against a brick layer half his age who refused to go down. It ended up a draw with that guy but dad’s shoulder was so messed up from holdin’ his own that his career was effectively over. He never went to a doctor to check on what he’d tore up so bad in there. He had to sleep for weeks with his arm bent . . . his elbow pointin’ straight up. He quit wrasslin after that and his arm did get alittle better but it always popped and snapped and he always had to favor it. I still thought my dad was the strongest man in the world though. I remember that time when I was little. He come in from the tavern with his sleeves rolled up . . . his biceps bulging. He picked us up. He hugged us. He was laughin’. He liked to say, “The bigger they are . . . the harder they fall.” He was so drunk. He gave mom a 10 dollar bill. He said he won that. He actually said he won that for us.